


Cascade

by taradiane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taradiane/pseuds/taradiane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't know the boy in the cupboard. I'm not sure that I ever did. Those aren't my memories, aren't my feelings. They belong to someone else. Someone that I'm not sure even existed. It's just a story. Something that people have told others just to make an average person seem more heroic at the end of the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cascade

**Author's Note:**

> Written June 2012 for hd_smoochfest.

It's the dream again. The same one I've been having for months now. I can hardly catch my breath. My heart is racing and I can hear the blood rushing through my veins. A fear that I haven't felt in years has me in its grip, squeezing me tight. I reach up to wipe my face and feel wetness from tears I didn't know I'd shed dampening my cheeks.  
  
It's worse this time. Worse than it's ever been.  
  
A sob is clawing its way up my throat, and I cover my mouth. Even if I were alone, I wouldn't want to cry out. I refuse to let this . . . this _thing_ take over. If I let it, I may never regain control. _It's just a dream, it's just a dream, it's not real_ , I keep saying to myself, over and over again. But the fear - that's real. It's very real.  
  
My hands are shaking. My breath grows heavier still. I don't want to wake him. What would I say? How could I ever explain?  
  


++

  
  
I thought that tea would help, but my hands are still shaking so badly that I can barely hold the cup. I put the kettle down and give it up as a lost cause, sitting down at the kitchen table and trying to take deep breaths. Ten minutes have passed and there are still tears running down my face. _Get a grip on yourself, you're not a child!_ I'm not a child. Sometimes it seems as though I never was. I don't know the boy in the cupboard. I'm not sure that I ever did. Those aren't my memories, aren't my feelings. They belong to someone else. Someone that I'm not sure even existed. It's just a story. Something that people have told others just to make an average person seem more heroic at the end of the tale.  
  
Christ, I'm so cold, yet I can't bring myself to light the fire. I don't want to move, afraid that if I do, something inside of me will shatter. I'm just going to sit here and wait for morning to come. Everything is always all right when the sun comes up. If I can just stay still until then . . .  
  
Light floods the kitchen and I see Draco standing in the doorway, hair mussed and shining bright like a halo as he rubs his sleep-swollen eyes. I feel the warm wetness on my cheeks again and rush to brush it away, putting my head down. He can't see.  
  
"Potter? What time is it?"  
  
His voice is deep and gravelly, the way it always is in the morning. At least, that's what I suspect. We've only had three mornings together, and the first two were entirely accidental. This was the first time that he's ever purposely not gone home after.  
  
"Go back to bed," I tell him, hoping my voice sounds normal. Not shaken and afraid. Not broken.  
  
"It's still dark out, why are you awake?"  
  
He's walking toward me now, eyeing my empty cup and the kettle on the hob, steam still curling from the mouth.  
  
"You all right there, Potter?"  
  
I can see the fabric of those silly pyjama bottoms that Neville had given me two Christmases ago - frogs on lily pads, jumping to and fro. They look especially ridiculous on him, but right now I can't bring myself to even crack a smile about it.  
  
The clock on the wall begins a jaunty tune, announcing the arrival of a new hour. It sounds absurd, and I want to punch it with my fists to make it shut up.  
  
"It's three in the morning, Potter. Come to bed."  
  
Draco picks up the cup and, seeing its empty, sets it down in the sink. His hand touches my sleeve.  
  
"All right there, Harry?" He whispers this time, his fingers lingering against my wrist. His skin feels so warm.  
  
I want to wrap myself in it. In him. Draco's always warm, and I'm so cold.  
  
Before I can stop myself, I'm reaching for him. Grasping, _gasping_ , and I'm so embarrassed, so _humiliated_ to need anyone the way that I need him right now. Not to kiss, not to fuck, but just to hold.  
  
"Harry, what-"  
  
But he doesn't say any more. I don't care that he's startled, that he's probably thinking that I've fallen completely apart. Which is the truth, I know. _I know_. And yet I can't explain, not to anyone, this cavern of emptiness inside of me. The darkness is swallowing me whole, and all I can do is let it consume me.  
  
I've never felt so alone.  
  
His fingers are running through my hair as I cling, my arms around his waist and my cheek against his bare stomach, eyes shut tight - so tight I can see stars. It's better than the other things I see when my eyes are closed. The only sound in the room is my breathing - heavy and laboured as though I've run ten miles.  
  
I hate the silence, yet I don't want him to speak. I have no idea what he would say to me, only that I don't want to hear it.  
  
"Nox," he whispers, and we're cloaked in darkness. Not even the moonlight will intrude.  
  
"Harry? Harry, tell me," he says, soft and almost sweet.  
  
I say nothing, don't even shake my head. I want to sob and cry out, let the scream that's been building inside of me for months break free and ravage my throat. I want to scream until I can't scream ever again. I'm angry - angry at myself for letting Draco see me this way, angry at him for daring to be here, _hugging me_ like a child, even though I was the one to reach for him.  
  
I'm angry at everything and everyone.  
  
"All right. It's okay," he says. "You don't . . . come on, come back to bed."  
  
He's loosening the tight grip of my arms from around his waist, and I can feel him pulling me up out of the chair, gently but with purpose. His naked feet are blurry, pale and perfect against the cracked and unpolished floorboards.  
  
He hates it when we come to Grimmauld, but our kisses had been urgent and hungry, and it was closer. Neither of us had been patient enough to make it to the next Apparition point to go to his flat with its bright clean walls and soft sheets and gleaming windows.  
  
I know he's looking at me, and I feel my face grow even hotter under his gaze. He's questioning, wondering, _doubting_ , pitying. It's okay - if he leaves right now and never comes back, it would be okay. _I_ would be okay. Except when I wouldn't. I might never be okay again. Normalcy seems a long ways away from here and now.  
  
"Harry," he whispers, but he sounds distant even as he pulls on my arm, my hand still trembling in his. I try to let go, but he only squeezes tighter.  
  
I loathe the pity in his voice. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. I'm not the one who should be pitied. So many others are more deserving than me. Some of them are more deserving _because_ of me.  
  
Up the stairs and under the covers we go, and his arms are around me even though I think he'd rather be far away from me. On the other side of the bed, on the other side of the city, on the other side of the world. At least I can breathe now. I don't want him to go. I don't want him to _want_ to go. I need him to stay. Maybe . . .  
  
Maybe . . .  
  
I turn to face him, and press my lips to his. They're so warm, just like the rest of him, and soft to the touch . . . softer than petals, even when they're crushed to mine and devouring me whole. Me with all of my jagged edges and rough, battered surfaces will never deserve such softness. The universe fucked up, got me confused with someone else when it gave Draco to me that night four months ago. He was meant for someone else, not me. Never me. I have to take what I can get while I still can.  
  
"No, don't," he says, muffled by my clumsy kisses. "Just sleep, Harry. It's okay."  
  
His hand rubs soothingly along my arm, placating and padding his rejection with sympathy. _Pity_. Draco abhors weakness. I'm weak. I let this thing grab hold of me and couldn't fight it off. And now he knows it.  
  


++

  
  
I'm not asleep but my eyes are closed. Draco isn't in the bed. I felt him waken earlier and leave the room. It was just after sunrise. I suspect that he's left, and find myself saddened yet not surprised by the lack of goodbye. Perhaps the universe has righted itself after all, even though I wanted more time.  
  
It's Sunday. I can hear Uncle Vernon's nasally voice even after all these years. _"Fine day, Sunday."_ I squeeze my eyes tight at the memory, forcing it back into that dark place where all the others are kept . . . all of the other things that they said, time after time after time.  
  
The bed dips suddenly, and I'm genuinely surprised when I open my bleary eyes to see Draco sitting down on the edge of the bed.  
  
"Cocoa?" he asks me, steaming cup in hand. I sit up and take it, only because I'm not sure what else I should do and not because I want it.  
  
I brace myself and look into his eyes, searching. I see no judgment, no pity, no scorn. I only see Draco, looking back at me. Unguarded. Unmasked. _Knowing_. I feel my heart flip at the sight of it, and have to look away.  
  
Some people don't think him attractive, but I do. His skin is too pale and his chin too pointy and his eyes too narrow. I like looking at him. I like tracing the long line of his straight nose, the just of his jaw, the edge of his cheekbones . . . so sharp you could cut glass with them.  
  
I take a sip of the proffered drink, rich hot chocolate with just a touch of cinnamon. He remembered.  
  
Neither of us speak. He brushes a wayward lock of hair from my face and just sits, patiently, as though his sole purpose for the day is to watch me drink cocoa. The silence is strangely comfortable, considering, but I can't stop myself from ending it.  
  
"I'll make breakfast," I say, even though I'm not the least bit interested in food at the moment.  
  
"All right," he answers.  
  
Neither of us move. He's still looking at me, and I move my gaze from the half-empty cup to the window. There isn't a cloud in the bright blue sky, and two birds are chirping at each other from the branches outside the window. A strange, swift rush of anger fills me at the happy landscape outside. I want to lean out the open window and scream, yell at the world to stop and . . . and what? Pay attention to me? Listen to me? I've nothing of value to say. Nothing of value to give. I want it to rain. I want the skies to open and unleash a deluge of icy cold rain from menacing clouds. Misery loves company and all of that rot.  
  
But Draco is _here_ , and the anger abates. Flickers. Dies.  
  
He's still wearing the frog pyjamas, but now he's also wearing a tattered old cotton shirt from our Hogwarts days. It wasn't tattered then. It was new and crisp and sharp, a gift from Hermione during our eighth year - what Ron called our do-over year.  
  
No one was as shocked as me back then to see Draco Malfoy enter the Great Hall that first morning. I've never seen courage like that before, and I'm not sure that I've seen it since.  
  
"Do you like eggs?" I ask stupidly. How do I not know the answer to that question when I've known him since I was eleven years old?  
  
"Eggs are fine."  
  
Something indefinable in his tone causes me to move my gaze from the sky outside and look at him. He sits with his hands folded casually atop one another in his lap, his shoulders relaxed and simply waiting. For what, I don't know. The cocoa has gone tepid and I don't want it anymore, but I swallow it down to make him happy and not think that I'm ungrateful.  
  
Our relationship is a strange one. I'm not even sure that it's a relationship at all, but I don't know what else to call it when you've been sleeping with someone for several months. A morning like this is a first for us. Usually there are no mornings at all. Twice there have been _'So sorry, I've got to dash, didn't mean to sleep so late.'_ No commitment, no expectation. I like it that way. At least, I think that I do. I'm not sure that I'm fit for more than that.  
  
This morning is . . . not at all unwanted. He made me cocoa with cinnamon. He stayed.  
  


++

  
  
"You can tell me if you want."  
  
My mouth is full of scrambled eggs and I'm not sure how to respond. Suddenly my mouth feels parched, and I have to swallow a large mouthful of juice just to get the eggs down. I look over at him, and he's staring at his half-empty plate as though it holds the answer to some secret. Draco's nervous.  
  
A moment goes by. Then two. And a third.  
  
"That is, if you wanted to, you could tell me."  
  
He looks up at me now, and I feel the sudden weight of his expectation. He wants to know. If I say no, the light in his eyes will fade and it will be my fault. Even though he's the one asking the question, he's trusting me to say yes. _'Yes, Draco, I will tell you everything that you want to know.'_ Trusting me to trust him.  
  
But it's not about trusting him at all. It's about trusting myself. Trusting myself not to be overwhelmed. Overcome. Overpowered by the darkness that lies in wait to swallow me up.  
  
Maybe it is about trusting him. Maybe he's the light. Maybe if he stays, the darkness can't get me. Can't find me. Maybe maybe maybe . . .  
  
"We've all got scars," he says, quiet and unsure.  
  
"I know."  
  
"When Voldemort took over the Manor-"  
  
"This isn't about the War." I say, interrupting him. "If that's what you're thinking, I mean. It isn't."  
  
His eyes grow wide. He's surprised that his assumption is wrong.  
  
"Oh. Then . . ."  
  
 _'Then what?'_ Confusion overcomes surprise, and I can see him trying to work out what could have got me in such a state the night before. What, if not War and Death and burying those I loved?  
  
I have a picture in my mind of Draco and I, sat at this very table with me telling him all of the things that no other living soul knows. Well, no other living soul except for Dudley and Aunt Petunia and the bones in Uncle Vernon's grave. But their Truth is so much different from mine. Even Dudley's, whose Truth is much closer to my own than Aunt Petunia's will ever be. She is incapable of knowing.  
  
Standing, I grab my own plate and Draco's, and carry them to the sink, intent on doing the washing up. I hear the scrape of his chair, and he's beside me, his hand touching my elbow ever so lightly.  
  
"You can trust me."  
  
A bark of laughter escapes my throat as I look at him, and I suddenly feel shame as hurt flashes in his eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry, I wasn't- I'm not laughing at you. Honest."  
  
The line of his mouth tightens and frowns, and I can't tell what he's thinking as he stands there, staring at me so intently. What I do see is the moment he makes a decision, and his gaze flickers toward the door.  
  
"I should go."  
  
Panic bubbles up inside me. _He'll leave and he won't come back - you know it as sure as the sun rises and sets._  
  
He's halfway there when I call out to him.  
  
"Don't go." I should be embarrassed by how desperate my voice sounds, but I don't care. I don't want him to go and take the light with him. I don't want him to leave me here with the Darkness, all by myself.  
  
Its tendrils have been snaking across my back all morning, waiting for the opportunity to take me.  
  


++

  
  
"That man was your cousin?"  
  
"Yes," I answer, referring to the man that Draco saw me with at the coffee shop four months prior - on the morning after we'd first slept together.  
  
"I would have never taken that man to be part of your family tree," he says, looking slightly disturbed.  
  
"Dudley's all right once you get to know him."  
  
Draco shrugs, fiddling with a frayed thread on the arm of the sofa.  
  
"Need I mention certain people from your family tree?"  
  
"Point taken."  
  
I'm strangely comfortable, sitting here on the sofa with him. I almost suspect him of putting something in the tea. I feel like I might actually be able to tell him anything. Everything. In for a knut and all that.  
  
"You meet up often, do you?"  
  
I shake my head. "Maybe once a month or so. We weren't . . . close as children. Quite the opposite," I laugh lightly, dozens of punches and shoves from heavy-handed fists flitting across the surface of my memories. "He was even bigger than me back then than he is now."  
  
"I never had any cousins my own age to play with."  
  
"Oh, we didn't play. He punched and I ran, basically. If I was lucky, I was able to run before the punch landed."  
  
"Sounds charming," he grimaces.  
  
He's leaning back against the arm of the sofa, one leg dangling off the edge and the other pulled up on the cushion, chin resting on his knee. A particularly joyful frog on his calf jumps from lilypad to lilypad. I want to kiss his frowning mouth, but don't.  
  
"And it was his parents who were your guardians?"  
  
He must sense my discomfort at the mention of my Aunt and Uncle, and rubs the side of my leg with his foot.  
  
"Yes," I nod, and take a deep breath.  
  
And then it starts.  
  
I tell him everything.  
  
I tell him about the cupboard, and the spiders. I tell him about my earliest memories of Aunt Petunia, her moue of disapproval and disappointment as she told me how worthless I was. Always in the way. An inconvenience that was never wanted. How I ruined all their plans for an easy, simple, _ordinary_ life. About Uncle Vernon's big booming voice that matched his big hands that sometimes tossed me around like a rag doll when I got in the way.  
  
I tell him about being locked away when I was sick, and yelled at for bringing germs into the house. I tell him about being left alone for days at a time, nothing but tins of beans and half-stale bread to fill my hungry belly as I stared longingly at the locked pantry and fridge.  
  
About all the times that I was told how stupid, ungrateful, unloved and unwanted I was.  
  
And I tell him about when I started to accept it. About when I stopped shedding tears for the parents that I couldn't remember. I tell him about the last time that I'd cried for my mother's arms and sweet voice - a voice that I couldn't remember, but liked to imagine that I did. That as time passed, how I knew that I would never be wanted or loved or even liked. That was my life. My existence was all about staying out of the way. Staying invisible and undetected. Unnoticed.  
  
I try to explain how being unwanted and unnoticed became a blessing and not a curse, because it meant that I was left alone - that I wasn't looked at with disgust, because they didn't look at me at all. Unnoticed meant unharmed.  
  
And then Hagrid had come, and everything that was dead inside of me awakened with a great heaving gasp of _life_. I was not the person that they said I was. I wasn't nothing. I was _something_.  
  
I don't remember when Draco put his arms around me, or when we'd shifted so that I was against him, his body supporting mine as I lay back, head resting on his shoulder. It's easier this way - easier to flay my soul wide open if I don't have to look at him.  
  
He hasn't said much, and for that I'm grateful.  
  
"It's silly, really," I laugh, and feel his arms squeeze tighter around me. "I was just a kid. I should be over it. I mean, I _am_ over it, I just . . .it wasn't until Uncle Vernon died a few months ago that I started having these dreams."  
  
"Nightmares," he says, and I can't disagree.  
  
"I can't explain it, really. There's nothing overtly terrifying about them." I twine his fingers with mine and rub my thumb across the palm of his hand. "Compared to the visions I got from Voldemort, these dreams are like a warm spring day."  
  
"Emotions can be terrifying," he says softly, almost a whisper. "Especially if they're feelings you thought were buried long ago."  
  
There's something hidden behind his words - something that makes me wonder about his own secrets.  
  
"What happened in your nightmare, Harry? Will you tell me?"  
  
He doesn't push as I let several minutes pass in silence.  
  
"During the War, one of the places that we hid was in the Forest of Dean. Do you know it?"  
  
I can feel Draco shake his head.  
  
"Snape brought the Sword of Gryffindor to me there. His Patronus, I mean."  
  
He lifts my hand and kisses it. It occurs to me in this moment that things will never be the same between us after this. It's strangely out of place, this feeling. Not unwelcome, just strange. I haven't yet begun to process the implications of my actions thus far this morning. I only know that I didn't want him to leave, and so I did what he wanted.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Sorry, lost my train of thought."  
  
"Tell me about the forest."  
  
"It's nice. I was never frightened there."  
  
Draco's hand is warm against the sliver of bare skin at my waist, and I have to work at not letting it distract me.  
  
"In my dream - nightmare - I'm alone in the forest. It's warm, and the sun is shining on my back. Sometimes I'm walking, other times I'm running. Not to or from anything, just running. I feel free. And then everything goes dark. And I'm not alone anymore but I can't see what's there. My legs won't move - I can't run or hide, like I'm frozen in place. Something's coming but I don't know who or what, I just know that I'm terrified and I can't escape. And even though I know that something is out there, looking for me, I feel lonely. So fucking _lonely_. And then I feel it – something breathing down the back of my neck. And there's so much hatred."  
  
My heart is racing as memories from the night before rush through me, and I don't want to talk anymore. I've talked enough. I've _exposed_ enough.  
  
Suddenly I feel like there's not enough air in the room, almost claustrophobic, and I move off the couch and over to the large window. The latch won't budge, but I need air, I can't breathe and I'm going to suffocate and-  
  
Draco's hand is on top of mine, and he eases the window latch open and presses forward. Crisp, sweet-smelling air envelops me and I breathe deeply, taking in big gulps of air. Draco's hand moves along my back, and it's too much, he's too _close_ so I shove him off.  
  
I should have kept my mouth shut. Regret and shame crash over me, and I want him to go away. I feel naked - stripped and exposed and rubbed raw so there's nothing left to protect me, not even my own skin.  
  
"Harry-"  
  
" _Potter_ ," I bite out, "you call me _Potter_ , not Harry - this isn't what we do." I'm shouting at him now, and I hate myself for it, but can't seem to stop. "We kiss and we fuck but we don't do _this_." I gesture wildly between us, not sure if I'm ashamed or just angry. I blame him. For what, I'm not sure, but it's his fault.  
  
"Go, please - just go," I beg, turning back to the open window.  
  
I can hear him moving but it's in the wrong direction. His arms are around me, strong and unyielding even when I try to move away.  
  
"If you're under the assumption that I don't care, you're wrong," he says to me, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, voice low and calm. "You think you're the only one with demons, Harry? You're not, and there's no shame in that."  
  
Exhaustion overcomes me, and I suddenly feel so tired - tired down to my very bones. Maybe I could just stay here forever in the safe harbour of Draco's arms. It's so warm here.  
  
"You aren't nothing, Harry. You're _everything_ , don't you understand? You are not unloved."  
  
I nod, but I'm not really hearing his words and I think he knows it.  
  
"You're such a fool, Harry Potter." He pulls me even closer, his embrace belying his admonishment. "Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I _stay_?"  
  
Draco pulls back, forcing me to look at him. His eyes fill with unshed tears, and I've the urge to apologise but for what, I'm not sure.  
  
"I don't like feeling like I have to leave after," he says, abrupt and matter-of-fact, blinking to clear his eyes and looking at me determinedly. He doesn't need to say after _what_. I know. "I will stay, and sleep beside you, and in the morning we'll have breakfast and you can overcook the eggs again."  
  
A laugh bubbles up and escapes, and Draco laughs with me. I go back to feeling ridiculous, but this time there's no shame behind it. His firm hands are on my shoulders and it feels good. Like some of the cracks are starting to fuse together and I can stand straight. Whole.  
  
"I will stay," he says again, this time more quietly but somehow even more sure.  
  
"If you want." I don't know how else to respond, but my heart feel so full it hurts.  
  
He leans forward and kisses me gently.  
  
"I want."  
  


++

  
  
"Working late tonight?" I ask him, mouth full of toast and marmalade as I pour the coffee.  
  
"I won't know until the Devonshire results come in later this morning."  
  
I take a moment to admire him - the clean, crisp lines of his dark blue work robes with the _Department for Regulation and Control of Potions_ insignia on the right breast. I can't imagine ever not wanting him.  
  
"You're going to be late," he says to me after kissing the back of my neck as he walks by.  
  
I shrug, not caring, and he _tsks_.  
  
"I'd of fired you years ago, Auror Potter."  
  
"Good thing you're not my boss, then, isn't it?" I give him that cat-that-ate-the-canary grin that I know he secretly loves.  
  
"Hmm, but if I were . . ." his words are cut off by the kiss he gives me, this time on the mouth.  
  
"You taste of oranges."  
  
I hold up my last bite of toast as evidence, a thick glob of marmalade precariously close to hitting the floor.  
  
"I'll Floo your office and let you know about dinner. Mother is going to be in town, so if I'm not working late, we'll be obligated to dine with her at Claridge's."  
  
I don't bother hiding my disdain. It's not that I dislike Draco's mum, but I do dislike the posh places she prefers - Muggle or otherwise.  
  
"Don't frown, it's only once every two months." Draco shoves an apple into his bag and turns back toward me, preparing to leave. "Tomorrow night we'll have curry or sufficiently greasy fish and chips to make you feel all normal and pedestrian again."  
  
"Shut up," I laugh, and shove his shoulder.  
  
Another kiss and he's out the door, leaving me alone in our kitchen with my coffee and soggy toast. It's been nearly two years since I clung to him like a child in the middle of the night, right here in this very room. So much has changed. I've changed. We both have.  
  
The Darkness still lingers. Sometimes I think that I can see it from the corners of my eyes, but when I turn to look, nothing is there. Only Draco, and all of his Light. It can't compete.  
  
Draco told me back then that he would stay, and he has. He sleeps beside me every night, and in the morning we have breakfast, and he stays.  
  
But I leave the scrambled eggs to him.  
  
~fini


End file.
